


It's For Charity

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ... Because of the heat..., All wind up no release..., Baking in pants, Bit of temper too, Heatwave, Johnlock Roulette, Lyric porn, M/M, Scones, all fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4673342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Middle of a heatwave, and John had promised to do some baking.</p>
<p>
  <i>Sherlock tilted his head, his eyes narrowed, “It’s quite a simple phrase, John. The windows, the large, fenestrated rectangles that make up the vast majority of the outside wall are currently sealed in a way rendering them incapable of being unshut. They don’t open. Currently. Obviously. Hence why they are closed in spite of the present external temperature.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's For Charity

**Author's Note:**

> I promised this to Jam AGES ago. I don't even know if there was a prompt or this was the general "scone porn" suggestion.

“What do you mean ‘the windows don’t open’?” John crossed his arms and glared.

Sherlock tilted his head, his eyes narrowed, “It’s quite a simple phrase, John. The windows, the large, fenestrated rectangles that make up the vast majority of the outside wall are currently sealed in a way rendering them incapable of being unshut. They don’t open. Currently. Obviously. Hence why they are closed in spite of the present external temperature.”

John closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath before he set his jaw. “I assume there is a reason why they won’t open.”

“There is a reason for everything, John, if one simply knows how to observe.”

This time, John had to count to ten before daring to open his mouth. His voice came out as a low growl anyway, “And it didn’t occur to you?” He made an exaggerated hand gesture. “With all of that genius brain power of yours, to, I don’t know, maybe wait until we’re not in the middle of an epic heat wave to tamper with the sodding windows?!”

Sherlock raised a single brow, “Are you suggesting I make the pursuit of scientific knowledge subservient to the intermittent fluctuations of atmospheric conditions?”

“No!” John snapped. “No,” he dropped his voice. “I’m just suggesting that you don’t bloody well _THINK_ sometimes!”

“I thought you enjoyed the heat,” Sherlock purred. “You were a soldier once.”

John clenched his jaw. He clenched his jaw and balled his fists and pursed his lips. Absolutely infuriating. He knew the heat was part of the reason for his short temper today, but it wouldn’t have been so bloody hot if he could just OPEN THE SODDING WINDOWS! “Fix it,” he growled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No.”

“No?” The muscles of his face spasmed in a conflicted mix of expression. “No, you can’t fix it? Or no, you won’t fix it?”

Sherlock huffed and pushed out of the chair. “They will not be in a state amenable to repair for another eighteen hours. Any attempt to rectify the current issue prior to that would render them damaged to a degree requiring replacement.”

He had stalked to the door, but his hand hovered over his Belstaff as if wanting to swirl into it dramatically. John crossed his arms and set his mouth in a tight smile. “Going somewhere?”

“Bart’s. Molly has a small set of diabetic pancreases for me.” Sherlock let his hand drop as he realized the absurdity of the great coat in this heat. Even the suit jacket would be a bit much. He recovered his haughty posture. “Should be home in time for dinner,” he grinned rather ruthlessly at John. “Do wait up?” And he winked and strode out the door.

John let out a long breath and rubbed a hand down his face. Git was probably just going to Bart’s to hang out in the morgue where it was air-conditioned. So he could stay in his absurd Savile Row suit. When his palm came away from his face with a thin sheen of sweat on it, John groaned resignedly. Shower. He needed a cold shower and then he’d deal with this… Whatever this was.

He’d donned a button-down over his tee-shirt, but even as he toyed with the idea of doing up the buttons, he knew it was ridiculous. Fresh from the shower and in jeans and the thinnest shirts he could find, he was already sweating again. Perhaps it was the humidity condensing on his skin. Maybe just a sheet, he thought absently as he contemplated his bare feet. Always a risk down here, but probably a necessary one today. Hell, he was likely to sweat into the fabric of his chair like this. He shucked the button-down. Even open it was too much.

“Hellooo?” Mrs. Hudson called as she knocked on the doorframe. “John? Are you… Good Lord, it’s warm up here.”

John gave a wry chuckle and waved at the windows, “Sherlock…”

“Oh dear. I was just coming up with the supplies for the scones. But this is too much. You couldn’t possibly, not in this heat.”

John scrambled up to collect the bag from her. “No. No, no,” he said before he could think. “It’s quite alright.” Scones, he sighed internally. The three-dozen of them he’d promised to bake for her charity bake sale. He dumped the bag on the counter and considered the worktop, wondering how deeply he’d need to clean it before rolling out the dough.

“I’ve a marble slab for it, for the worktop, if you’d like.”

“Really?” John furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn’t…”

“Said the wood was more likely to mop up his mistakes,” she smiled sweetly.

“He doesn’t make mistakes.”

Mrs. Hudson glanced at the window, her smile never flickering. “Trouble you two get into. Are you sure? I can make them myself, when I’m done with the cake, and the muffins.”

“Not at all,” John sighed. “I’ve lived through worse.”

An hour later, he was considering rescinding his word. After hefting the marble up from Mrs. Hudson’s pantry, and cleaning the worktop rather thoroughly, with the oven on, preheating, and the effort of kneading the dough, he’d sweat clean through his tee-shirt and his jeans felt uncomfortably chafing. He divided the large mess of dough in half and set them each into a mixing bowl and draped a towel over top. They’d need to prove. Right. He washed his hands and tidied the supplies he’d finished with then dragged his forearm across his forehead. It was like a sauna. He bit the inside of his cheek for a moment. Water, he’d start with some ice water.

He dumped the entire ice tray into a bowl and refilled it, replacing it in the freezer along with the bowl minus the volume of his pint glass worth of ice, and after a brief internal debate, he moved two beers into the freezer as well. The ice water was pleasant. Not enough, but it was definitely an improvement. Sod it; Sherlock wouldn’t be home until the evening. So he slipped his tee-shirt off. Slightly better. And after another minute of debate, he shed his jeans. There, he nodded and pulled one of the beers out of the freezer. This was far more bearable.

_Now there was a time, when you loved me so…_

Sherlock closed the door, too drained to bother slamming it in spite of his ire. What an absolute waste of a morning. He wrinkled his nose at the state of his suit and peeled off the blazer as he made his way up the stairs. He suspected his hair was rather lank with the humidity and heat, and his shirt was likely a lost cause at this point.

_And can’t wait till you see. I can’t wait…_

He tilted his head as he hit the first landing. The music blaring from the kitchen; kitchen? Kitchen was horribly loud. Radio? Maybe John’s laptop? He shook his head pop music was not something he’d dedicate any amount of space to.

_So how you like me now, how you like me now…_

Sherlock paused, catching an unusual sound underpinning the heavy beat and percussion. He frowned. John was singing. Singing? Intermittently humming and singing along with the music. Maybe he was in a better mood. Maybe the heat had melted his brain and irrevocably damaged his sanity. He weighed the options.

_Yeah I was a lie, that you can’t give up…_

Sherlock shook his head and finished mounting the stairs, pushing into the sweltering heat of the sitting room. Melted brain. Certainly. Jesus it was unpleasant in here. He tossed his jacket on the arm of the couch and turned toward the kitchen. He wanted tea. Was that a reasonable request? Perhaps John knew how to make iced tea. That might suit in this weather. Could reasonably assess his mental function as well.

_Would you give it to me? Would you…_

He froze. Bare shoulders. He blinked. Bare shoulders and strong arms and dexterous fingers working firmly into the dough on the worktop. He stopped dead, his eyes catching sight of a trickle of sweat work its way down from broad shoulders, across the knuckles of exposed vertebrae, into the dip of low back – lumbar lordosis, his brain supplied weakly – and soaking into the waistband of, oh sweet Jesus, red boxer-briefs.

_How you like me now, how you like me now…_

God, John was only in pants. And he wasn’t just humming, singing, humming, fuck he was swaying his hips along to the beat. And his thighs and calves tensed as he rocked up onto his toes to punch some of the air from the dough. And John tilted his head as he considered his work, and Sherlock was nearly overcome with the urge to bite that exposed neck. And hell if his thumbs wouldn’t sit perfectly in those venusian dimples – fossae lumbales laterales, technically – and his fingers could probably reach all the way around John’s hips from there. But did he want to rub against that plush arse or grab big handfuls? Or taste it?

_Does that make you love me baby? Does that make you want me baby?..._

“John.”

Oh God, he hadn’t wanted to say anything. He didn’t want to have to look away. He didn’t want to stop this… This whatever… Oh God, John had heard him. Heard his wrecked voice over the sound of the music. And John turned, startled slightly. His face was flushed with exertion, with embarrassment, with a bit of fright, with a touch of alcohol, and it was a healthy pink beneath his summer tan and the smear of flour on his cheek and on forehead, and the sprinkle in his hair. And he had dough coating his hands, and some of his arms, but the apron didn’t do much to cover his chest. Oh. Bare shoulders. Scar. Chest. Arms. From this angle it actually looked like he was naked under the apron. Bare toes. Why was that important? It was everything.

_Oh Mercy…_

And John was watching him. Looking at him. Studying him. He could see… He must be able to see. He could see everything. He crossed his arms, though not uncomfortably, drawing a smudge of flour across the front of the apron. The smell of baking scones was the same as sex now. And forearms. Biceps – should be illegal. He tilted his head. He licked his lips. He smirked. Dimples on his face. “Sherlock?”

_Hello…_

No, his mouth wouldn’t work. What were words for? Stupid. Insipid. Unnecessary. John raised a brow. What color was that? Navy? Cobalt? Midnight and Royal? Steel and Azure? Denim? Pupil, all dilated pupil. Oh… OH.

_Oh yeah…_

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics from How You Like Me Now, by The Heavy (listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVzvRsl4rEM )


End file.
